She's made of outerspace
by obedientlittlevictor
Summary: And her lips are like the galaxy's edge and her kiss the color of a constellation falling into place. There is nothing quite like Kensi Marie Blye in the entire universe.


When Kensi Marie Blye walks into a room, any room, there's a 99% chance that she will have every eye on her in milliseconds. The other 1% accounts for the sight-impaired. So it's no surprise that when she saunters into the club's main room, nearly every man and woman wants to take her home.

A few years ago, she might have even take a few of them up on their offer, if her trip to this particular venue hadn't been for work. But it was, and the North American Arms mini .22LLR folded and stowed between her breasts was proof enough of that. Not that anyone could see it – Hetty always made sure female agents had dresses that didn't allow for detection of the weapons they carry – but she could still feel the sleek metal press against her skin with a constant reassurance.

Callen is bartending, uncharacteristically flirting away for tips, Sam is stationed as a bouncer at the exit closest to the VIP section, and Deeks is floating around the club somewhere. It's not like she really _needs_ the gun, but she would rather have one than not, especially if her mission only has her luring out their mark instead of going home with him.

 _This time_ , her mind reminds her because sometimes that is her job, and she swallows back a grimace at the thought of going home with this particular smuggler, Carl Sheer. Weighing in at nearly 300lbs at her height doesn't do Sheer any favors in attractiveness, but his penchant for drugging underage girls working the streets has only fueled her fantasies of his incarceration.

Her job tonight is to get close enough to him that she can slip a tracker on the lapel of his jacket, and she feels like a true undercover agent. Oldest trick in the book, send in the sexy agent to get close to the sleazebag criminal. It doesn't matter how cliché the plan is, because it usually works.

And Kensi _really_ wants it to work. His latest nighttime companion was given a bit too much GHB and died. On top of the DEA's drug smuggling charges on Sheer, rape and murder charges are courtesy of the FBI. They just need proof, and tonight's meeting has a very high likelihood of giving them that proof. His potential business partners tonight are the reason the NCIS team got involved: Sheer is hoping to expand his suppliers to include the Azerbaijani underground transporters in anything and everything from drugs to nuclear weapons.

It's all convoluted. Carl Sheer is a pathetic, disgusting man who deserves to rot in jail, and anyone he does business with needs to join him. Kensi couldn't give a single fuck about who gets the collar.

She can feel the moment when she captures his attention. She's older than his preferred victims, but the emerald green dress that serves to barely cover her body would get anyone's attention. Her exaggerated drunken footfalls make her an easy target, as evidenced by the four other guys who practically fell over themselves to _help_ her out.

Sheer stands to go to the back area where the restrooms are and she brushes past the next group of _concerned_ men. Kensi should give them credit; maybe they are genuinely good men who are worried about a stumbling drunk girl on her own. But she forces past them and collides directly with Sheer's enormous back.

With a giggle and a slurred apology as she brushes her hand across his chest, Kensi easily slips the tracker behind the lapel of his jacket and trips over her feet to get to the line outside the women's room. She's grateful when he doesn't follow her, but does his business and gets back to his booze and suppliers. She uses the bathroom quickly and returns to the dance floor. It was long-decided that she would have to stay for some time in the club, as it wasn't too large and her immediate departure may rouse suspicion from her mark.

Her hips are swaying to the beat of the music when she feels hands pull her roughly against a solid body. If there was any doubt that the bold move was coming from Deeks, it disappears in a second when she smells a mix of his cologne and the scent of something so innate to him that she could never quite place.

"Is the deed done?" Deeks asks in an exaggeratedly low and slow tone, mimicking old gangster films.

There's no good explanation for why that tone of voice sends a wave of heat through her body, but it does and God help her, she is in deep.

All she does is nod, never missing a beat between the snap of her hips and the progressively possessive grip Deeks has on her. He's already halfway there, and with the way she grinds into him, she doubts it would take even another minute to get him fully hard. She feels the vibrations from his groan where his chest is against her back and it takes everything not to flip up her skirt and unzip his pants right now where they stand on the dance floor.

They're still in a strange, almost hesitant fog after their fight from earlier in the day about her going under, even on such a simple mission. He had expressed his concerns for her well-being, having the image of her knocked out cold on last week's op fresh in his mind. In typical Kensi Blye fashion, she shot down his concerns and managed to insult him along the way. She wants to clear that up. She wants him to take her home and throw her down on her bed and—

"Kens, your guy's gone," Callen reports in their ears though the comms. The interruption breaks the moment and Deeks leans his forehead against the crown of her head. "Sam and I are gonna head out too. See you guys bright and early Monday, yeah?"

"Thanks, Callen," Deeks practically growls.

The music is still pounding and she's feeling a little wilder than normal, so she demands, "Leave us some shots at the bar, will ya, G?"

They watch Callen roll his eyes but pour two shots of tequila with the usual fixings, and put them onto a tray behind the bar. He raises an eyebrow expectantly and despite wanting nothing more than to keep Deek's hard body against hers, Kensi grabs his hand and leads him to the bar.

Kensi saddles up next to a group of frat-looking college guys and they literally double take. She would laugh if she didn't feel the possessive heat flaring through Deeks as he steps between them and her. Before she can even make to call over Callen, Deeks grabs her waist and pulls her into a searing kiss. His tongue traces her lips and she lets out a girly whimper.

His eyes never leave hers even as Callen interrupts them when he slams down theshot glasses in front of them and Deeks throws a twenty dollar bill at him without a word. Callen snorts and adds the money to the actual bartenders' tip jar and claps the other bartender on the shoulder before taking his leave.

"So do you want to talk about earlier?" Deeks asks her primly and hands her a shot of tequila first. Kensi takes Deeks' hand, eyes on his, and slowly licks the back of his hand. His eyes close for a beat too long to be a natural blink, then open as she taps some salt onto the wet skin.

Kensi repeats the motion on her own skin and when she glances up, it takes a second for Deeks's eyes to travel from her mouth to her eyes.

"Cheers," she says in lieu of an actual response and downs her tequila shot. She opts out of sucking the lime, since she's never been a fan of the sourness anyway, but puts the slice between her lips, rind against her teeth, and raises an eyebrow at Deeks.

Their eyefucking, since it can't be classified as much else, is enough to attract the attention of a few of the club patrons.

Deeks licks the salt from his hand, swallows the clear liquid, and leans forward to take the lime from Kensi's mouth. He juices it quickly, spits it back into his shot glass, and pulls Kensi against his body, his mouth covering hers and sharing the taste of lime.

"The only talking I want to do, Deeks," Kensi murmurs against his lips, "is the dirty kind."

There is nothing quite like Kensi Marie Blye in the entire universe.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Title is Arabella by Arctic Monkeys. I'm liking a little bit of** **raunchy Densi in an easy mission where nothing goes wrong.**


End file.
